


White Noise

by SpeedyElite



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Advice Given, Gen, Music, Reminiscent Trauma, for Vanitas Zine !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeedyElite/pseuds/SpeedyElite
Summary: Mere inches he had been from grasping the flaying strings of an ancient heart, Vanitas had been torn away just as swiftly. Of course it was Sora who harbored the heart of his other – of course it was the simple boy who made friends with even his enemies. A rough cough shook his frame as he dragged himself from the remnants of a broken door, splinters scattered across the dirt, rolling with the ghastly howl of wind. The barren wastelands of the Graveyard had become his home and, despite the amount of pain it brought him, a motivator for his actions. He was but a piece of the puzzle to Xehanort, but he would rather be a piece needed than an extra discarded.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece that I composed for the Vanitas Zine ! I wanted to explore the odd dynamic between two wild cards that deserved more screen time together. 
> 
> The piece takes place during the events of KH3, just after Vanitas is thrown through the door in the Monsters Inc. Factory and returns to the barren wasteland of the Keyblade Graveyard. Reflecting over his failure to reunite with Ventus again, he ends up being visited ( more like bothered lmao ), by none other than the local fool. Reassurance arrives in odd forms, doesn't it ? Anyway, I hope you all like this !

Everything had been going so well. The factory had been lush with fear and bitterness, each one sprouting a new creature from his lips, a different curse to accompany the monstrous creations risen up from within. Monstropolis had offered him an immense amount of emotion, the sensation of their escape still burning the walls of his throat. But the greatest desire of all had been that familiar feeling – the fleeting pulses of a heart meant to be tuned to his beat, his drum and  _his_ tempo. This time, Vanitas was determined to create something worthy of his name – no longer an empty creature risen from a whole. To be empty was to be worthless, and Vanitas was almost certain he held worth – at the very least, he was still a necessity and so long as his body still moved and emotions still churned, he was determined to keep it that way. For his heart, as empty as the old man said it was, still yearned against all odds to become  _whole_ . 

Mere inches he had been from grasping the flaying strings of an ancient heart, Vanitas had been torn away just as swiftly. Of course it was Sora who harbored the heart of his other – of course it was the simple boy who made friends with even his enemies. A rough cough shook his frame as he dragged himself from the remnants of a broken door, splinters scattered across the dirt, rolling with the ghastly howl of wind. The barren wastelands of the Graveyard had become his home and, despite the amount of pain it brought him, a motivator for his actions. He was but a piece of the puzzle to Xehanort, but he would rather be a piece needed than an extra discarded.

Helmet set at his side, he draped his legs over the rocky cliff overseeing the open area, the emptiness drifting on for miles. Frustration boiled, rising like bile in his throat, thickness coating his tongue. Bound fingers curled into the dirt, body shuddering as he held off the onslaught of emotion for now. Over time he had learned that to let it fester would create an even bigger emotion – strength from pain and suffering. Vanitas had learned long ago that the taste of emotion was far better than the taste of dirt and defeat ; too often he had felt his face slammed into the hot dirt far below him, his cheek scrubbing against small pebbles and grains, cuts stinging as the heat did nothing to soothe. Compared to those painful days, Vanitas was sure this day couldn't possibly get worse – defeated or not, he had still succeeded in  _finding_ Ventus. That was a start. The optimism was foreign to him, eyes closing as he tried to search within his empty heart for purpose behind it. No, it couldn't possibly get worse.

“Oh wow. Did they _bench_ you, too?”

Of  _course_ it could get worse. A fool he was to believe otherwise. Yellow eyes snapped open as brows knitted together, upper lip curling in disgust as the voice registered. Not only was the higher-pitched voice obnoxiously strange, but the person it belonged to was no less irritating.   
“No.”  
“Then why are you sitting way out here? I mean, aren't you supposed to be out?”  
“I'm not useless like you.” Leather coat tails draped over the ledge as a body settled not far from his right, a light chuckle breaking the silence Vanitas had been enjoying. Could he not enjoy even the simplest things? Was he to be denied every semblance of content?   
“Fair enough,” Demyx replied, a sheepish expression on his face. He let out a long sound as he stretched his arms up, scratching idly behind that disaster he called a hairstyle. Vanitas stared from the corner of his eye, watching the musician's every move, upper lip curling higher to reveal sharp teeth – an animal's warning to remain where he was, lest he be mauled. “I prefer being useless. Means I get more time to sit back, relax and enjoy a tune.”  
A  _tune_ . That was a concept Vanitas was still trying to understand. Although he kept to himself, Vanitas did not keep his eyes to himself ; he often watched all of the Nobodies drudged up from the darkness, annoyed with their bickering, jabbering and constant whining. Unlike him, they had no  _real_ purpose.  _They_ were just pawns in the grand scheme of things, but  **he** was the masterpiece. He was going to be the final key to everything – at least, that was what he had been told. Seek Ventus and join together to create something  **more** . The old man may have had his plans, but Vanitas was willing to bet that he was a necessary piece. It was all he  _ could  _ do, after all. What was that called – that feeling of-  
“Hope you don't mind if I play something,” Demyx said, a light chuckle breaking up his words, “Everybody else kinda shoves me off into a corner.”  
“And what makes you think  _ I  _ want to listen to all of that...  _ noise _ ?”  
“Aw, come on, grumpy,” the musician replied, a gloved finger lifting to wag in the air, “You can't dis' it 'til you try it!”

Vanitas had half a mind to reach over and break that wagging digit, brows lowering as his lip curled into a disgusted snarl once more. “Put that finger in my face again and I'll bite it off.” Demyx let out a low whistle and lowered his hand, fingers settling on the strings of his interesting ( ridiculous, in Vanitas' opinion), instrument. Although he was opposed to the idea of hearing the buffoon play anything, his eyes trailed down to the musician's idling fingers, absorbing the process as if it were an opponent he needed to destroy. Brows knitted tightly over his hardening glare, crease in the center of his forehead pinched to an almost painful point. Vanitas was trying to comprehend how it was that Demyx simply knew what to play. Although he had heard music in other worlds, Vanitas had never actually stopped to enjoy the sound – why would he? It was just noise, wasn't it? Noise that joined together in an odd pattern that seemed to somehow catch the attention of those around.

The acidic taste of bile rose, exhaling into his clenched jaws, bringing nausea quickly. Vanitas turned his head away, brows so tightly furrowed, his head was beginning to ache. Gloved hands splayed over his chest, clutching to the fabrics of the leather coat, feeling the heat of the sun soaking in, though never truly hindering him. Yet, in that moment, he felt beads of sweat collecting on the back of his neck as his throat desperately attempted to close, jagged teeth gritting tightly behind sealed lips. The strain of holding back the bittersweet release of such a negative emotion was making him dizzy, the barren wasteland of the Graveyard blurring into a golden-brown spiral, slowly colliding with a yellow and gray sea above. Vanitas wanted to gag, to spit up the sludge creeping up his throat, clawed digits scraping at his tongue, holding any words from escaping – only the sound of his pounding heart and the rush of blood in his ears.

Through the chaos, he heard a singular sound – a sound he couldn't quite describe. Eyes he hadn't realized were closed suddenly opened, yellow gaze drifting back to the Nobody at his side. Demyx was strumming the strings with precise moves, fingers moving in an almost graceful fluidity, carrying the noise, piecing it together like an intricate puzzle. A puzzle that was once split apart, now seamed together by controlling hands with an instrument of choice – a weapon. Vanitas' hands slowly released his coat, the sludge pushed back with a thick swallow.  
“Hard pill to swallow,” Demyx asked, though his eyes remained downcast, upper body swaying side to side, pulled to and fro by the noise echoing across the Graveyard. Vanitas immediately rose to his own defense ( if he didn't, who else did?), snarling as he jerked his head away, though his eyes flicked to peek through dark strands.  
“What are you talking about?”  
“The  _ Unversed _ ,” the other mused, a knowing smile forming before his own yellow eyes lifted to meet Vanitas' own, “They're made from your emotions, right?”  
“What's it to  _ you _ ?”  
“No need to get so aggressive,” Demyx said, lifting his hands, noise stopping as he waved gloved fingers in the air, “Geez. No wonder you're always spitting something up.”

Vanitas scoffed and crossed his arms, shoulders hunching as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, body curving over the ledge. Demyx was the fool of the Nobodies – they were  _ all  _ fools in his opinion, but Demyx was the laziest, most useless person he had ever met ( next to Ventus, of course). The silence drifted between them, the wind howling in the distance, kicking up dirt and small pebbles.  
“The noise stopped,” Vanitas observed aloud, though it was mostly an external thought. He heard a slight chuckle of confusion before Demyx turned his attention back to him.  
“Huh?”   
“The noise,” Vanitas said, tone annoyed as he motioned to the sitar, “It stopped. You stopped making noise.”  
“N-noise,” the other asked, a laugh bubbling up before he could help it. Vanitas scowled, lips twisting down in disgust. How could a Nobody – a person that lacked a  _ heart _ – express so much emotion?   
“Yeah,  _ stupid.  _ The  **noise** .”  
“That- Vanitas, that wasn't noise. It's  _ music _ .”  
“Same thing. It's all noise.” Demyx made a noncommittal noise, turning his attention back to his sitar, gloved fingers brushing particles of the swirling dirt from the strings. Silence returned and, though Vanitas initially felt irritation, he realized he was missing the sound.  _ The music _ . 

“Do it again.” Like a demanding child, Vanitas looked to Demyx, sitting up straighter ( despite being much shorter). “The noise. Do it again.”  
“You just said-”  
“I don't care. Make it again.”

There was a brief pause before Demyx's fingers began again, moving along the strings, plucking each one. This time, Vanitas watched with a neutral expression, skin of his face tight to keep any emotion from showing ( and forming, if he was lucky). Gloved fingers plucked each string, and Vanitas' ears tuned in on each one's unique twang. Each one had its own sound, made to fit along with the rest, from a low sound to a higher chime. Vanitas watched as Demyx began to sway slowly, a low hum rumbling from the depths of his throat, accompanying the noise his fingers were creating with the strings. The intricate design of the puzzle became clearer as he listened,  _ truly  _ listened, hearing how each note carried to the next, binding together into a tightly knit tune. 

Sounds were woven between each other, coming together in a form of completion – a triumph for them to be complete at last. Every piece where it should be, nestled and settled, no split or tear to keep them apart. Vanitas' eyes dragged from shuddering strings to graceful hands, then up to the face of the Nobody playing. Demyx, so aloof and unbothered, simply basking in the moment of being able to just  _ enjoy  _ something. So simple, so  _ foolish _ , and yet – Vanitas felt  _ something _ . Envy? Jealousy? No, it didn't bring that rising acid in his throat. He looked down to his own gloved hands, fingers curling into his palms. Demyx strung together specific noises –  _ Demyx _ , the  **idiot** who was never trusted with anything – sitting on the  _ bench  _ just like him. 

Yellow gaze rose as his ears finally succumbed, opening audio pathways to receive the noise as a whole. If the notes were the pieces, and the strings the sewn stitching, then Demyx was the creator. Without a heart, he was piecing together a puzzle out of fragmented pieces – a complete piece that could be seen as  _ a marvel _ . Vanitas had once been a promised marvel, but he had never truly seen himself as  _ complete _ . Without Ventus, what was he but a jumble of noises? A tangle of strings that could never find the proper note, nor carry a melodic tune. What was Vanitas to the world except the noise in the background, buried beneath all of the-

“What do you call it,” he asked, looking to Demyx, head tilting in an inquisitive way, though his expression was filled with aggression, “The music. When you piece it together like that.”  
“A song? Songs?”  
“Songs.”  
“Well, yeah. Haven't you ever heard a song before?” Demyx laughed, shaking his head. “Man, the old man sure keeps you sheltered, huh?”

But, Vanitas did not answer. He stared out at the Graveyard, his tense face muscles relaxing as the breeze smoothed over his skin, weaving between his jaw piece. “The opposite,” he mumbled, eyes slowly lowering to view the barren waste below. He could recall countless nights he spent, cheek dragging in the dirt, metallic taste of blood on his lips, mixing with the bitter taste of emotion. The sting of tears as small pebbles ground into open wounds, no doubt wedging beneath his skin the way the old man's words did. He was convinced he was nothing without the half of him that was missing – the notes pieced together elsewhere, carrying on a song without him. He was the piece left out, the notes cut out, the strings unneeded. “He tore me open a long time ago.”  
“So?”

_ So _ ? Vanitas scoffed, bringing the heels of his boots to catch on the ledge, arms draped over his risen knees. “What do you know? You're not even needed. You're just like  _ me –  _ except worse. At least  **I** have a purpose at the end of the day. You're just cannon fodder for those  _ Lights _ .”  
“Maybe,” Demyx mused, but he didn't seem bothered. The sheer ignorance irritated Vanitas, causing a spike of aggression to form, his throat making a low growling of annoyance. Demyx chuckled quietly and sheepishly scratched the back of his sandy hair. “Yeah, I know. Heh, it's weird, but I guess I just like to think it's all part of one big composition.”  
“What,” Vanitas asked, exasperatedly jerking his head toward the other, “What are you  _ talking  _ about?”  
“You said the old man tore you apart, right,” Demyx asked, his face growing an oddly serious expression. The dropped expression of aloofness and sheepish nature caught Vanitas off guard and he suddenly felt a rise in uncertainty. “Xemnas always benched me because he thought I was  _ useless _ , too. But, when you play the right tune, the song can sound appealing to anyone. That's why an orchestra can compose songs of great emotion of bring a crowd to tears. A musician is just an artist with a different medium – and an artist is just a nobody on the street until someone catches their work.”   
“... You're saying I should be on the street somewhere playing a stick with strings like  _ you _ ?”

“A song is just different notes torn apart. Piece it together and you get the masterpiece back – it's all up to you. Simple as that.” Demyx lifted a finger, wagging his digit in the air, an animated gesture that seemed to sway his entire body. The sudden shift in emotion and personality made Vanitas uneasy. He stared at Demyx, brows slowly pinching in a confused manner, eyes flicking up and down, as if expecting an attack. There was a wise tone within his voice, a knowing glint in his yellow eyes, and a sense of smug satisfaction in knowing he had fooled the dark creature beside him. “But, hey, what do I know? I'm just the lazy one. At least, that's what I let them believe.” Demyx slowly rose to his feet, sitar dismissed in a flash of light and popping bubbles of oceanic mist. “Sure, sitting on the bench sucks, but it sure beats sweating out there in a huge fight. That's not really my  _ style _ .” He gave Vanitas a chuckle, a two-fingered salute to his temple, and a whistling sound as he turned to leave his side. 

Style. Music. Songs. Notes. Vanitas let his tension slowly unwind as he turned his gaze to the golden-brown dirt ground up from his splayed fingers. 

  
_ A song is just different notes torn apart _ . 

Pieces. Was he not in pieces? Vanitas lingered on the thought, his mind slowly absorbing the interaction with Demyx, churning with new knowledge acquired.  _ Was  _ he in pieces? Or was he simply a mixture of pieces in need of sewing? Emotions swirling together in a murky history, buried within the shadows of a piece torn from him – praised for its existence, while he was shunned. Vanitas, the  _ empty creature _ created from Ventus – a mere  **tool** meant to bring forth a powerful weapon for a man who cared little for who he trampled upon. If Xehanort was the creator, and Ventus and he pieces, then why was it Ventus had a song meant for the crowd, while Vanitas was forced to remain a cluster of noise? That white noise that was often passed, forgotten and ignored – the noise he had ignored in every world. Was he the same as that he had always ignored?

  
_ Piece it together and you get the masterpiece back – it's all up to you. _

Though he wanted to brush off what Demyx had said, he felt an odd relation to the words. Piece it together and he would complete his own puzzle. His own intricate design, like the strings of the instrument, with his own unique sound. Yellow gaze panned upwards, staring at the dusted sky, soaking in the dismal colors within his bright iris. Of all the noises in the world, a  _ song  _ was truly most captivating. It was more than just enjoyable audibly, but signified a sense of completion – to  _ be _ . Chapped lips pulled into a smile, bitterness rising in his throat, mixing with  _ acceptance _ . If Ventus wanted to be his own song, then Vanitas was through being the noise in the background. If Ventus was choosing to be part of Light's ever booming sound, then Vanitas was going to be the one song that echoed from the shadows. 

It was time to piece himself together – to make his own notes.   
His own  _ music _ . His own  **song** . 

His own  _ masterpiece _ . 


End file.
